


Harry Potter and the Empty Pensieve

by widowbread



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Diverges For HP After GoF, Earth-458 Or Something IDK, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, HP/Marvel AU Mashup+OCs, I Don't Care About Fantastic Beasts Even A Little, I Fill In Plot Holes As I See Fit And Who's Going To Stop Me, I'm Sure They're Mary-Sues Or Something And I Don't Care, Queer Rep of Various Sorts, Self-Indulgent, that gay shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-05-16 10:56:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14810024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/widowbread/pseuds/widowbread
Summary: Transfer students, magical bureaucratic political jockeying, and the threat of an old pursuit interfere with Harry's 6th year in a distinctly irritating way, but at least he finally gets away from Privet Drive. Of course, that has its own set of consequences, not to mention Voldemort being alive again. The transfer students didn't even want to come.





	1. Things Aren't As Bad As They Could Have Been

**Author's Note:**

> This is getting written because it was a fun AU idea that, between myself and my co-writer, spiralled the fuck out of control. It's definitely his fault. I promise it actually has a serious plot. Co-writer is sightless-raiton, who doesn't have an AO3 account for me to link but lurks me on Tumblr.
> 
> It largely follows the basic macro-plot of OotP, with the traditional what-if-these-OCs-were-there-for-it alterations and a few others to patch canon things we kind of hated and make the two settings harmonize better. Romance is strictly background to the main plot but there is A Lot of queer stuff because I am hopelessly queer. Attempts moderate canon-compliance (for HP only) for a given value thereof. Contains weird plotting, Tragic Backstories, ignoring of everything JKR says about most of the world outside the UK, and a narrative weighted about equally between HP and Marvel/OC perspective.
> 
> Expect updates to be glacial, but the plot as planned covers all of OotP. Here we goooo.

Surrey tended to receive a decent, normal amount of rainfall, like the surrounding counties, so this July, dry as a bone, was unusual. Of course, it certainly wasn't the most unusual thing Surrey could boast—if it could have boasted, and had a mind to—for here resided, reluctantly, at Number Four, Privet Drive in the town of Little Whinging, a person of some importance. Though he'd only just learned of it a few years ago, Harry Potter was a wizard.

In addition to accidentally bringing about the downfall of a Dark Wizard as an infant, Harry had spent the last several years attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and spending summers with the only family he'd ever known: his Uncle Vernon Dursley, his Aunt Petunia, and his cousin Dudley. Despite being his family, they were nasty, often-cruel folk who didn't like Harry much, and never had, a sentiment that he returned.

As he always had since being introduced to Hogwarts and its thrilling, fascinating world of magic (and best of all, _friends_ ), he would have preferred to remain at school all year long… and this year, even more so, after everything that had happened near the end of last term.

Summers at Privet Drive were always awful, but they'd never been like this.

Before, just hearing from Ron and Hermione, even if they only owled once in a while, would have been enough to make a drab, dreary summer—spent ducking Dudley and his gang, desperately hoping and yet not hoping to hear something about Voldemort even on the Muggle news, and enduring the usual level of disregard from his aunt and uncle—at least bearable. Looking forward to seeing them again and returning to Hogwarts would have been enough, no matter how bad the Dursleys got. But this summer, their letters only made him feel worse, because they refused to _tell_ Harry anything.

He'd have thought Ron would say something, _anything_ , just because he knew Harry would be bursting to hear, but Ron had only talked about his brothers as usual, and complained about Ginny, and his letters all looked just like they always did. Hermione had at least apologized, saying she couldn't say much in case her letters went astray—and she'd talked about her parents instead. A lot. Harry now knew much more about dentistry than he'd ever needed or wanted, but nothing at all about Voldemort or what was going on in the wizarding world.

Sometimes he could scarcely contain his memories of his last time there—seeing Cedric die, being tied to that tombstone and nearly killed, having his blood stolen to resurrect the person who had killed his parents—but as the weeks wore on, and he tried to keep his behavior quiet and subtle so that nothing could complicate his return to Hogwarts this time (like house elves working Hover Charms, or missing the train, or even just Dudley smashing his school things as Harry was certain he would if no precautions were taken), and all he could think about sometimes was that Voldemort was back, and yet _nothing had happened_ … not that Harry _wanted_ something to happen, but… it was almost worse to think something had, and he would have no way of knowing, because he was stuck in Little Whinging for the summer yet again. Even the _Daily Prophet_ gave him nothing, and he hardly even looked at it anymore, and wouldn't until it acknowledged Voldemort's return.

And Harry's friends knew how much he needed to know for sure, and still they wouldn't say anything. It chafed at him, and seemed to grow more and more unfair (and less and less reasonable) as the summer wore on, until he could hardly think of it without feeling his face heat up in anger.

Sirius hadn't written back at all. Harry was feeling distinctly abandoned.

He had begun to have dreams about what might be going on, which turned into horrible dreams about Cedric and Krum and Pettigrew and being lost in the Tri-Wizard Tournament's maze again. Even Hedwig couldn't calm down after he woke from one of those, ruffling her feathers in alarm and rattling her cage and making it that much harder to get back to sleep. Harry had once woken Dudley by falling off his bed, and had been forced to scrub every pot and pan in the house, even the clean ones, until his fingers ached for days. Dudley had made himself out of breath with yelling, sure that someone had broken into the house, and caused Aunt Petunia to be beside herself with worry first and fury second. After that, Harry had put an old folded blanket on the floor in case he fell again. But he'd have done that punishment ten times over for some _real_ news about his friends or his school.

Today he was sulking, though he didn't like to think of it like that. The weather had turned especially muggy, half-overcast and humid without ever really promising to rain, baking things in the sunlight and not even having the decency to produce a breeze. Still, Harry preferred to remain outside rather than hide in his room. Air conditioning wasn't worth feeling any more trapped than he already did, and besides, he could stay away from Dudley, who wouldn't leave the artificially frigid house on a day like this for anything less than free food. Most people in the neighborhood kept their distance from Harry, and it mostly meant he could go wherever he wanted.

Provided, of course, that he wouldn't face punishment for disappearing when Uncle Vernon called him for a chore. He usually stayed fairly close to the house.

Today: the garden. In this heat, even Aunt Petunia, obsessed with appearances, had not ventured out to tend the begonias in days. They looked much the worse for wear, so Harry felt right at home among them.

He had been here for an hour and a half already, staring moodily at the brown tips on the otherwise immaculate lawn across the way while he kept half an ear open for anything interesting on the telly that he could hear through the open window, and had begun to think of other places he could sit, following the shade to the other side of the driveway. He didn't really want to be that close to Aunt Petunia's favorite snooping curtain, though, and it was so hot he was having trouble working up the energy for moving anyway, so he just continued to intend to move while accumulating a gradual sunburn.

He drowsed, and thought of how nice drowsiness was because it let him forget about Voldemort, and then thought about how circular it was for that to have made him remember about Voldemort, and tried to focus on a nearby hedgerow, counting the tiny red berries—

_Someone was watching him._

Harry shot up from his sitting position so quickly that it dizzied him—but it was the impact to his head that knocked him down entirely. He collided with the solid wooden windowsill and nearly blacked out, mouth filling with a flat coppery taste as his vision exploded into stars. It was a long moment of spinning agony before he even felt the woebegone begonia now halfway up his nose, or the uncomfortable twist in the way his leg was positioned; reflexively, he pushed himself up on both hands, confused and not yet quite certain what had happened.

Another moment, and he remembered _being watched_ , and somehow climbed to his feet and tried to focus his eyes on the hedges across the way, looking for the other pair of eyes he'd seen there—

"YOU—BOY!" The shout nearly splintered Harry's skull.

Uncle Vernon had stumped up to the window, the scandalized natterings of Aunt Petunia wafting out from behind him, and Harry ducked without thinking, narrowly avoiding being grabbed by the neck. It backfired, though, making him overbalance and land hard on both knees. He thought his hand was still clamped to the sore spot on his head, but wasn't quite sure.

"What the devil do you think you're doing?" came another bellow, fortunately not quite as strident, and Harry hastily scooted backwards and struggled to his feet, out of range. His eyesight was clearing a bit, so that he could see Aunt Petunia (still further away inside, towards the sofa) had her most disgusted expression on, the one where she seemed to have a foul smell right underneath her nose and couldn't scrub it off. Uncle Vernon was taking looks to both sides, making certain the neighbors hadn't poked their noses out, and then he refocused on Harry. "What are you doing skulking in the garden, then?" he asked nastily. "Gave Petunia a turn with your knocking about!"

"I'm sorry," Harry mumbled, rubbing his head.

Uncle Vernon persisted. "Out with it, boy!" His thick hands, deprived of Harry to throttle, had clamped onto the sill so that he could lean forward as far as his girth allowed, to an almost comical effect.

"I was… weeding," said Harry in reply. He didn't really expect them to believe him, so he didn't offer any pulled weeds (not that he had any) as evidence.

"Weeding, eh?" His uncle's face darkened. "You're up to something, I'll warrant!"

At least this was predictable. "I'm not up to anything!" Harry's voice was somehow more tired than upset, and if he could tell, maybe even Uncle Vernon could also. "I just thought… there's not much water, so if I pulled up the weeds, the flowers would have a better chance outlasting the heat…"

"A ruddy awful job you're doing of it!" Uncle Vernon said. Behind him, Aunt Petunia had finally come close enough to peek over his shoulder a bit, and she pressed her lips together at the sight of the flowers Harry had fallen onto. One was unmistakably crushed, and two more weren't very well off. They all had weeds around them.

"You stop that, you nasty little boy!" she said, fixing him in an outraged glare. "Get inside!"

Harry wanted to argue, but decided it wasn't worth what he'd catch later, so he sighed. "Yes, Aunt Petunia," he said, and headed for the front door. His skull was going to ache for hours, he could tell.

He was right; it still hurt by the time he'd managed to escape outside again, after twilight had set in and dimmed for a while towards nightfall. He hadn't been made to do anything, only sit in his bedroom and make no sound at all until his aunt and uncle's tempers blew over, but it meant he'd missed the evening news, so that listening now would only tell him the most recent drama on Aunt Petunia's soaps. It was still better to be outside, though, especially now that the air had cooled some, and Uncle Vernon had made very clear that Harry was not going to be given any supper. His stomach growled, and he sighed, but he was used to it. He avoided the garden.

Instead, Harry headed in the direction of the park, meandering out of habit to avoid the houses of notably unpleasant neighbors. Sitting in his room in silence had given him nothing to do but think more, and he moodily kicked at pebbles and half-dried grass tufts as he went.

He'd considered just turning in early, but restlessness had prevented him from trying, so that now he mulled over his frustration and the sensation of being trapped while also dreading the nightmares he knew he would have once he slept—Cedric again, or the Tournament or Voldemort, or else dreams of wandering corridors full of locked doors.

His scar itched whenever he woke from those; he'd given up trying to tell Ron and Hermione after the first few times they'd both said that it probably didn't mean anything, since the scar had always done that from time to time after Harry had started school at eleven. By the time Harry reached the park, jumped the fence, and settled on the only unbroken swing, idly pushing off on one foot just to sway a few feet back and forth, he was back to how monstrously unfair everything was.

Everything, and everyone. Nobody seemed to care that he was the reason they all knew Voldemort was back, or that it was all he could do not to hex the Dursleys and ride his racing broom at full speed towards the Burrow. Or that he was at the top of the list of people Voldemort wanted to kill. He'd have been a lot safer with other wizards.

Not, he thought suddenly, that he'd _want_ Voldemort to go through the Weasleys to get to him… he felt a little bad, biting his lip and digging a heel into the dirt to stop swinging. Both hands clenched around the chains. His head dropped. They were better off with him staying here. But did it have to be _here?_ Wasn't there anywhere else Dumbledore could have sent him besides back to Little Whinging to spend another lonely summer with his horrible aunt and uncle?

While he thought that, feeling utterly miserable and paying little attention to how dark it was turning, the quality of the night suddenly changed.

He heard them before they were anywhere in sight; he'd listened out for them often enough: Dudley, who had evidently ventured outside at some point after the midday heat had lessened, and from the sound of it, at least two of his usual gang. Dudley had been spreading out his bullying from just Harry—a mixed blessing—and acquiring new cohorts all summer, who could often be spotted in his company doing just what they were doing now, laughing about how badly they'd thrashed someone weaker than they were.

Good news for Harry, in an awful way, that they'd just come off punching a different boy; he wouldn't have to avoid his disappointed cousin completely on the way back home, though he aimed to anyway. And he did have to get going—Dudley nearby the park meant Harry would have to sprint to be home ahead of him, as his aunt and uncle seemed to have arbitrarily decided that whenever Dudley trundled in was the mark of Harry's curfew. Harry stifled a groan; the episode in the garden had cost him nearly the entire afternoon and evening of relative freedom.

He clambered off the swing, trying to keep it from creaking, and moved a little into the darkness so he could get a better idea of which direction Dudley was coming from.

"But it was so easy," one of them, not Dudley—Edmund Spruce, maybe—was saying. "He didn't even run."

"That's cos he knows better," said definitely Dudley's voice in reply, sounding very pleased with himself. "He begged enough, that's certain. Proper groveled."

"That's boring," said another voice Harry didn't recognize, nasal with complaint. A sharp _thwack_ followed— "Hey!"

"Go on then, I'm so boring," Dudley said, sounding much less self-satisfied.

"I didn't mean it like that!"

"Shut up then!"

Harry debated the merits of interrupting them and embarrassing Dudley in front of his friends, maybe with a hand in his pocket as if threatening a wand draw just to see the flash of terror and humiliation in his cousin's piggy eyes, but Dudley was less easily intimidated, even by unpleasant magic, when others were watching. More to the point, he'd put on some muscle under his fat this last year, through the sole exercise of hitting people and things with fists and his stick (who his latest target had been, Harry couldn't guess, but it had to have been someone very little to not even try standing up for himself).

Being roughed up might be worth it, but when it also promised to make Harry miss the moving curfew… he had rather just stay out of sight and try to get home ahead of Dudley.

He slid carefully past a hedge, dragging his trainers through loose dust to keep quiet; Dudley's beastly conversation continued as he crept to the edge of the park. There was a fence he could jump to cut a little time off the run home, and keep him well out of sight of the lit paths his cousin would take.

He was vaguely disgusted with himself for not coming out and taking Dudley down a peg, like Ron would have, instead of sneaking around like a Slytherin… and it quickly turned into the same resentment from earlier—that he had to keep coming back here at all, when he wasn't even allowed to cast basic spells to make the misery easier without being expelled from school, when he'd been the one to protect the Philosopher's Stone from Quirrell and the one to kill the basilisk and survive a duel with Voldemort _not that anyone would believe him_ but he _still_ had to hide from bullies and his aunt and uncle like a timid first-year.

Edmund Spruce was sniggering. It came muffled through the baked-dry hedge leaves.

Harry had already convinced himself to stop running away, but the laugh cemented it; he was _just_ working up to turning around and confronting Dudley so he would feel like a Gryffindor for sure, when he heard someone scream.

It was a strangled, tinny sound, high with terror—Harry felt the dread of it in the pit of his stomach like a spike, and for a moment only, the nearby bushes closed around him, suffocating. In the next second he'd turned around on his heel, wand in hand, and begun sprinting through the darkened park, towards the scream.

Running back through the dust around the swingset and over hedges between himself and the sound, Harry heard two more terror-filled cries join the first. He nearly tripped over his own feet when he realized one of the voices was Dudley's. Rounding the bend onto the street, wand raised, Harry felt his breath grow cold and saw it puff on the air. Dudley and his gang— _Piers!_ A distant part of Harry finally placed the nasally voice from earlier—were shaking in terror, Piers looking particularly glassy-eyed and rat-like in his fear while Edmund appeared to have passed out on his feet. 

Dudley was swinging his pudgy arms around wildly, his hands clenched into slab-like fists, as he desperately tried to strike something he obviously couldn't see—

_It was a Dementor._

The hooded and cloaked figure was still his worst nightmare, and as soon as Harry could clearly identify it, the effects of its presence hit him full force. His knees went weak, and his breath suddenly seemed too little, and the grey, ragged tendrils of its form were reaching out to smother him from yards away.

He had stopped, too caught between horror and disbelief at first to know how to react; Dudley's pig-like eyes locked on him before he could recover from his surprise and his cousin began bellowing at the top of his voice, _"YOU! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! STOP IT! STOP!"_

That shook him free. "It's not me, you bloody idiot!" Harry shouted in response—as he belatedly started moving again and closed in on Dudley's helpless gang, fighting through the air that suddenly seemed like water, he could already place the fourth scream he was hearing distantly as his mother's voice, the same pleas for mercy he heard every time he was faced with the terrifying spectres. "It's a Dementor! Keep your mouths closed! KEEP YOUR MOUTHS CLOSED!"

Dudley focused on Harry, glancing at what to him was empty space that Harry's wand was tracing, tracking the Dementor. Dudley looked back to Harry before he slapped one of his wide, beefy hands over his own mouth and shouted muffled through it for the others to do what Harry said. It was too late, though. Edmund had clearly collapsed from fright at this point, an easy target for a Dementor's Kiss, while Piers had wilted unseeing to his hands and knees, paralyzed with horror.

"COME ON! LOOK AT ME! _LOOK AT THE WIZARD OVER HERE!"_ Harry yelled desperately, trying to distract the cloaked creature from the helpless bullies. A pounding pressure was pushing him down, but he tried to push back, to keep moving.

It seemed to work for only a moment, the Dementor pausing in the air, floating consideringly. But then Dudley took a knee, and the Dementor began slowly drifting down towards Harry's piggy cousin, taking its time now. Gritting his teeth, Harry tried to ignore his mother's piercing screams as he slid to a halt between Dudley and the Dementor; Dudley couldn't see it, but could clearly feel where the terror was emanating from.

Harry planted his feet, preparing a happy memory of zooming across the Quidditch pitch, and raised his wand high. " _EXPECTO—_ "

 _"Kill the spare,"_ a sibilant voice echoed. Harry froze, wand still above shoulder height. For a moment he was back in the graveyard, and Cedric had just suddenly dropped dead at his side. His eyes stared, glassy in the dim light.

It was only a moment, then Harry was back in the park, with the memory holding him still, wrapping him like a shroud. The Dementor bore down on him.

Shaken, breathless, Harry tried again. " _Expecto—expecto!—Ex-expecto Pa_ …"

It wasn't any good. The happy memory had fled, and Harry couldn't think through the sheer terror and conflicting images. Voldemort's death and Voldemort's return and Lily Potter's screams echoed back and forth in Harry's head, like the telly switching between channels. The creature was leaching the colors out of everything, and Harry's vision swam, and his throat closed so that he couldn't manage even the tiniest speck of sound.

_No…_

Then there rang out a call, high and clear like a trumpet but not at all the same sound, and it was like that call was air so Harry's lungs could fill again—the horror gripping him loosened, then withdrew, leaving him sputtering and gasping and still trying to level his wand again, his vision grayed out against the sudden return of the streetlights above him.

After a moment he could hear Dudley's terrified, shuddering gasps behind him. The pavement was rough under his numb fingers. He hadn't realized he'd fallen to his knees.

"It's alright there, Harry, take a moment to breathe." A hand firmly took hold of Harry's shoulder, helping to lever him up, more reassuring and grounding even than the voice itself. Harry grabbed hold of the arm attached to that hand, leaning automatically in spite of a surprised _whoof_ that the man let out in response. Stabilizing himself took longer than he'd have liked. Looking up and gasping for air, Harry finally saw his savior.

Sirius' steady gaze locked with Harry's, before his godfather broke out in a smile that did little to hide his relief that Harry seemed unharmed.

"Sirius?" Harry gasped, partially in surprise and partially from a lack of air. He didn't feel the Dementor any longer, and there was color in the world around him again, but nothing felt quite real yet. Had it gone? It had to have gone. But he hadn't really heard a spell being cast…

"Oh, not hardly. I think everyone will recover, with some chocolate in them, maybe." Sirius' gently wry smile turned into a full, reassuring grin over the pun.

Harry would have snorted and rolled his eyes, if he'd had the energy. If what had happened, hadn't just happened. He was waiting to feel warm again.

"What—" _gasp_ "—what _was_ that?" sounded on the night air.

Harry's head jerked back to look behind him. Dudley was panting in exhaustion, terror very slowly fading from his doughy face. Piers and Edmund were passed out in a heap, and Dudley himself was using them as a very convenient support to lean on while his legs refused to work just yet. "It—it _is_ gone, right?"

" 'S gone. 'S a Dementor," Harry said, finally getting out something resembling a sentence. "Magical creature."

"Ye-es," Sirius said slowly, eyeing Dudley. "Nasty piece of work. Causes terror with its presence, and if it gets the chance, likes to suck out souls through the mouth." Dudley stared at Sirius, suddenly silent from the no-longer-abating terror. Sirius grinned without humor. "Wizards use them to guard our scariest prison."

"P-prison guards?!" Dudley gasped out. "What was it doing here?" He seemed to be asking Harry.

A good question. Harry froze, and snapped his gaze back around to Sirius. "Was it for you? Oh, no, do they know you're in the area? You've got to go!"

Sirius' expression turned grim. "Not quite, Harry. If the Ministry knew _I_ was here, they'd have sent more than one, and in theory a few handlers to make sure just this sort of thing didn't happen." Sirius gestured at Dudley's gang. "But they'll doubtless be on their way shortly, given how much I threw into that Patronus just now." He eyed Harry before giving him an almost rueful grin. "I mean, I may not be reliably capable of achieving a fully corporeal patronus like _some_ young men I know…"

Harry looked away.

Sirius frowned. "You alright there, Harry? …You looked like you—I was sure you had it handled at first. I know you've dealt with worse before."

" _Worse?_ Than _that?!"_ Dudley said, sounding like he couldn't believe such a thing was possible.

"Oh, yes. Gets worse the more of them there are," Sirius said matter-of-factly as he left Harry to stand on his own and kneeled down to help Dudley up. "First time Harry and I really got a chance to talk, he saved me from—oh, must've been a half-dozen of the blighters, all on his own." Sirius glanced at Harry again as he checked that Piers and Edmund were still breathing. "This was a little over a year ago, when Harry was thirteen. Gods, you've shot up since then, Harry, soon you'll be fifteen, won't you?" Sirius was truly grinning now, somehow fond of what Harry remembered as only a terrifying experience.

Dudley was merely staring at Harry like he'd never seen anything so horrifying as his own cousin before in his entire life. "Half- _dozen?"_ he squeaked, a very small sound. "But, wait, if you—"

Harry cut him off. "I heard Cedric." Sirius' head turned sharply around so he could make eye contact with Harry. Dudley looked confused. "A… friend," Harry continued. "He… died. Towards the end of last year." He finally looked up at a pale-faced Dudley. "That's why I… didn't handle this one."

He really didn't know why he was explaining himself (and not even very well) to his cousin, who wouldn't care and still looked as if he might join Piers and Edmund on the ground. He supposed it might have been so that he would really feel like this was actually happening.

Sirius brought both boys' attention back to him by brushing his knees off and standing up straight, saying, "Well, it's a good thing you didn't. If _you'd_ cast that spell, we'd've had Ministry Aurors down on our heads for underage magic violations the moment you said 'Patronum', and I would've had to stop lurking around trying to keep an eye on you."

"'Lurking around'?" Harry and Dudley both said. Harry didn't think he and Dudley had ever actually agreed on anything before.

Sirius grinned brightly. "You not noticing was supposed to be the idea. I've been hiding in hedgerows all summer, so no one could see me making sure you were okay." He turned back to the unconscious boys, frowning.

Harry and Dudley just stared at Sirius for a moment, before Harry glared. "You've been here this _whole time?!"_

Sirius stared back at Harry, wide-eyed and slightly alarmed. "…yes? You even spotted me briefly earlier today. I thought you'd caught on."

"That was you?" Harry asked incredulously. "And you didn't write me back? Or tell me ANYTHING?! _OR JUST LET ME KNOW YOU WERE ALIVE AND WHAT'S HAPPENING?"_

Harry was very definitely shouting by the end, but found he didn't much care given how angry he was—for he was indeed abruptly furious, which finally chased all the Dementor-shadows from the edges of his mind. It was the same and yet not the same anger he'd been nursing all of today; it was hotter, more enormous, than he'd known anger could feel. Nevermind he didn't even need a babysitter! Sirius had been there _the whole time!_

"Ah-hah," Sirius laughed dryly, still somewhat taken aback. " _That_ is a _fascinating_ story that I will happily explain to you in detail. Once we've gotten out of the area where a wanted fugitive just cast a spell." His voice got intense to match his gaze, and for the first time a real crack appeared in his veneer of good cheer.

Harry had to stop again, mid-wind-up towards a rant he'd been building to all summer, when Sirius said that, and nearly choked on his next shout. Seeing an opportunity to keep talking, Sirius took it.

"We've been standing around talking for too long already, and I really shouldn't be casting any magic when I'm not behind wards anyway. My wand doesn't have a trace on it, but powerful magic in an area where the only known wizard is Harry Potter? _Someone_ official will come looking—sooner or later. And when they get here, I need to be gone."

Harry wilted, and bit his tongue, and tried to let the rage subside, though it still made his face hot and created little spots at the corners of his eyes. He might be angry, but Sirius was right, and the last thing Harry wanted was for his godfather to get caught and probably Kissed.

"Which means so do _you_ , Harry."

Then Harry froze for a very different reason, not daring to hope.

"After this I won't be able to hang around keeping an eye on you, and whatever Dumbledore says be damned." Sirius looked at Piers and Edmund. "It's obviously not safe for you here. So, what do you say?" He gave Harry the brightest grin he'd had since Harry had seen him. "Want to come spend the rest of the summer with your godfather?"

Harry was prepared to say exactly how emphatically he wanted _just that_ when Dudley finally reminded the wizards of his presence by interrupting. "What do you _mean_ by a 'wanted fugitive'?" Dudley looked between a suddenly wide-eyed Harry and slightly bemused Sirius for a moment before it clearly clicked for the larger boy. "Oh my God. You're a CRIMINAL!"

"No, he's _not!"_ Harry immediately responded, the thwarted anger redirecting itself towards Dudley.

Sirius' almost chuckling, "Oh, yes. Wanted man, I am." _did not help_.

"He was falsely accused!" Harry said loudly over Sirius.

"You _are_ a criminal!" Dudley shouted, before looking right at Harry, nostrils flaring. "He just ADMITTED IT!"

"FALSELY! ACCUSED!" Harry shouted in response.

Dudley was growing hysterical. "That thing was a _prison guard!"_ he yelled, right back in Harry's face. "It was here for _him!_ He'll bring _MORE OF THEM!"_

"And _that's_ why you'll be taking a brief nap," Sirius said, before the red light of a Stunning spell hit a gesticulating Dudley square in the back, and Harry suddenly found himself supporting his cousin's dead weight. He grunted and tried not to fall over.

"Not exactly the calm type, is he?" Sirius asked. Looking around Dudley's bulk, Harry saw Sirius levitating the still unconscious Piers and Edmund. "C'mon, Harry. Let's drop these three off somewhere safe and get going."

Harry found himself staring at his godfather again in what he realized was rapidly becoming a far too frequent a feeling of surprise. Making up his mind to wait until he got a proper chance to yell at Sirius again, Harry went with it. "Fine, but can you levitate Dudley, too? He's heavy. And I can't leave with you without Hedwig and my Hogwarts things."

Sirius shrugged. "Fair enough, but let's be quick about it, eh?"


	2. Nobody Knows What The Hell To Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha here we go, OCs are here. Please be kind to me about the pacing, I haven't written long-form chapters in literal years. Also I tried to narrow the spacing around scene breaks and the editor Would Not let me.

The street was emptier than usual. Frank had only been there a handful of times, but his experience said it typically bustled a great deal more; then again, he'd only been there during times of heavy traffic, such as early in the Hogwarts school year, so while it felt eerie it wasn't surprising. Better this than the Alley itself in any season.

Still, it unnerved him. He turned up his collar and headed swiftly for the Leaky Cauldron.

Inside was little warmer than outside. This place, at least, changed little each time he entered it, being the same dark, smoky pub it had always been, with even the patrons visually interchangeable. It was in a state of perpetual disrepair that annoyed him, but wizards in the UK liked their traditions, and shabbiness was apparently one of them. He was probably going to have to get used to it. _If_ he said yes.

It helped to see, walking in, that his request to be met by someone other than Hogwarts' famous Headmaster had been heeded; a tall, near-statuesque woman in green made a sign with her hand that he should join her, and he did, pulling out a rough wooden chair and sitting down without any hesitation, grimacing at the creaking sound he made. The corner in which they sat, like most in the Cauldron, was shadowed and not overly close to other tables, which was what had made him agree to this location for his interview. If it could really be called an interview.

He faced her, taking note of her severe expression and neatly tied black hair, and decided he was hopeful. He extended his hand, and she shook it, her grip firm.

"Mr. Castle," she said in a dry, sharp voice. "I am Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress, here on behalf of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Frank nodded at her. "I appreciate you coming."

"I appreciate you being punctual." She seemed to be taking his measure, as Frank was taking hers. "Can we conclude this business quickly, or will you be wanting to see the grounds today?"

"I'm only here because Moody asked me a favor. Start with exactly what you want me to do." If she was going to forge ahead and ignore all the niceties it suited him just fine.

Her gaze sharpened even more, as she replied, "I should hope that's already been communicated. You are being considered for a prestigious teaching position at the school, not being asked an extravagant favor."

Frank shrugged. "I'm not invested much in prestige. If I do this, I'm uprooting my daughters and walking us all into what might be a war zone. Or was Moody just being paranoid?"

A long sigh, and McGonagall leaned back in her seat, hand resting on her teacup handle. The cup was no longer steaming; she'd come early. "Mr. Moody is perpetually paranoid," she noted drily. "It's unfortunate that this time he has reason to be. We shan't speak of it here, but you're quite right. I was told you'd already accepted."

"You're going to have to give me a reason to."

"What reason would you like, Mr. Castle? You're being asked to fill a teaching position with a difficult history. It doesn't come with perks. You'll be paid fairly, as we all are, and the students will benefit from what I'm informed is expertise."

"I want to know why you called _me_." Frank leaned forward on his elbows, exasperated. "I don't like doubletalk, and I figure neither do you. You're outsourcing pretty far if you hire me, and you'll have to take my daughters as transfer students—you know the issues with that, and most of them will be on your end. I want an explanation."

The Professor's face tightened, and she straightened up again, staring him down with dignity over her square spectacles. "I don't take kindly to intimidation, sir. You'll take this offer at face value or you'll not take it. We have difficulty maintaining a qualified instructor in this position and you came highly recommended, which we were assured means that you have been informed of the post's requirements. Our students must be adequately prepared for the upcoming tribulations of their adulthood, especially in times like these. We are quite prepared to accommodate your needs, as we do for all our staff, terrible manners notwithstanding." She sniffed disapprovingly and took a sip of tea before adding, "I daresay you've already judged it worth a trip to London."

Well. That was fair. Frank nodded, and it was a respectful nod; she'd won the first exchange.

He relaxed somewhat, and leaned back again until his posture was straight. Before speaking more, he spared a glance around them at the rest of the pub. There were few patrons, none of whom read to him as interested, subtly or otherwise, in his conversation with the Professor. The bartender was at the other end of the bar, ignoring them. It seemed a decently safe place, all things considered, although his unfamiliarity with UK magic made everything uncertain.

Frank suppressed a grimace, thinking of that; he was going to play a lot of catch-up, and so were the girls, if he did this.

Finally he looked again at McGonagall, who was still watching him with disapproval, and decided not to shrug. "Fair enough," he replied, as if there hadn't been a pause. "I've got… professional pressure on me to accept, but it's my choice. Would 'accommodations' extend to bringing in a TA?"

McGonagall studied him for a long moment, lips pursed, deciding something. Slowly, she placed her teacup back in its saucer with a soft clink. "Perhaps you think I have not been informed of all the particulars, Mr. Castle. Rest assured I would not have come here without them."

Frank made a noncommittal noise and inclined his head in apology. "But someone told you I'd already said yes. Your Headmaster?"

"Mr. Moody," the Professor replied with aplomb. "He seemed quite certain."

"That sounds like him. And my daughters?"

"We'll place them with their age-mates if they don't require too much in the way of remedial teaching," was the answer. "I trust you'll see to that. They will be held to the same standards as all our students. They'll each be Sorted into one of the four Hogwarts Houses based on their dispositions. The school's full protections will extend to them, of course."

That last was not encouraging, from what Moody had told him.

There was a too-long pause during which Frank was considering if he had any further questions, mulling over his options; McGonagall stood, as tall as his first impression and a great deal more regal. She arranged her slanted hat in a way that accentuated the effect, then primly adjusted her sleeves. "You're not being stinted on information," she said, "and you've had a great deal of time to ponder this already. I shall have your answer, sir, or I'll be on my way." Her tone brooked no nonsense. Overall, he sensed that she was irritable at having showed up in the first place.

Frank sighed, and stood as well, pushing away from the table and making a notable scraping sound against the floor with his chair. One other pub patron looked over, then looked away.

He extended his hand a second time. "I'll accept, for this upcoming year. We'll see after that. From what I hear, it's a one-year run, anyway."

Although she shook his hand again, Professor McGonagall did not seem impressed by that answer. She said, voice ironic, "We have quite enough pessimism at Hogwarts these days. You'll have a friend in Professor Snape, no doubt." Turning, she concluded with, "You may owl me with any esoteric requirements, and we'll arrange placement testing for your transfer students before the term begins. Good day, Mr. Castle." She swept out.

He was unexpectedly but definitely reassured about the decision he'd just made, if McGonagall was a measure of the quality of the school. He decided the best word for her might be "redoubtable."

As he departed himself, earning a black look from the bartender for leaving without ordering anything, Frank noted wryly that the Professor had rushed him for his answer and had gotten the one she wanted, which was fine because he had more or less already decided. Refusing wasn't worth the fight with his superiors, and the girls could take care of themselves better than a castle full of British teenagers any day, wizards or not.

He was candid enough to admit to himself that he'd only been looking for an excuse to refuse, beyond the obvious difficulty with this possibly-alive Dark Wizard of theirs—and he'd wanted to avoid being _riddled_ at by Albus Dumbledore, so getting the opposite was only deserved.

Parker was going to act like an ecstatic rookie over this. Frank resigned himself to days of that, and prepared his wit for a contest with Sonja's. If anyone was going to object, it would be her.

  


* * *

  


Letters arrived a week later. Frank had to send a prompt apology to the school for one owl injured and another scared out of half its feathers.

It was going to be their first assignment, and for reasons Sasha comprehended but could not contemplate sharing, Sonja didn't want to. During those moments when she wished, inexplicably, to just talk with her sisters, Sasha thought about talking to Sonja about things like that, and about the difference between how they made things and why; she never did. She'd resigned herself to understanding next to nothing that happened in Sonja's mind, so asking was without point.

She knew Sam's mind because Sam never shut up. While Sasha sewed, and Sonja fumed, Samantha chattered away. "Did you ask why we have to use birds?" she was saying.

"Because it's extra complicated and they love that," said Frank. He sounded grumpy. He was inspecting Sasha's letter, because neither of the other two had volunteered theirs.

Sam sensed that had been a rude answer and not an accurate one, and she scowled for a moment before looking perplexed again. "Does it mean we need one of our own?"

Frank looked up long enough to make a face at her. "No." Sasha tried not to stare queerly at her, too. None of them had time or patience for a pet, and it would only be less feasible on assignment. "You can't have one."

"I didn't say I _wanted_ one."

"And you think we should live with these people." Sonja's tone emerged waspish, layered with disgust, but more to her usual standards of control, unlike earlier when she'd verbally flayed everyone in hearing range over her neatly-slit envelope and its offending contents. "Why shouldn't we adopt some near-useless creature in order to perpetuate their lack of efficient communications infrastructure? You already want us to learn their clumsy verbal magic and wear their excruciatingly ridiculous clothing." Losing the argument had done nothing for her, as she wasn't used to that happening.

Sasha had to agree with her on the last part. According to Frank's descriptions, the clothing was impractical at best, particularly the standard cloak, to say nothing of the formal attire. She thought that with an example to work from, she could modify it to tear away easily, though it would be difficult to acclimate to so much loose fabric. That would be a much more productive use of time than arguing or asking extraneous questions.

She'd figure out what to do about the skirts later. They were all still in quarters for now, while Frank sorted things out with Commander Howlett, so she'd have time.

"Come on, Sonja," Sam grumbled, giving her a cross look. "What are we going to do for a year until Frank gets back if we _don't_ go?"

"Enjoy civilization," Sonja shot back.

Frank put the letter down, spared the silent Sasha a glance, and sighed. "It doesn't work that way," he told Sonja. "You won't have autonomy if I'm not here; you're underage, so they'll have to place you with a guardian, or else put you in some kind of boarding school anyway. You're coming with me."

Sonja glared. "Oh, yes, you made that clear. Are you requiring me to be pleased?"

Sasha contemplated informing Sonja that she could be starting remedial lessons instead of sniping, but since Sonja would outpace them all at those lessons anyway, internally she shrugged and continued with her task, tuning out whatever Frank said in reply.

She wasn't like Sonja, but also knew she would learn swiftly; if this United Kingdom magic system was anything like the American wand magic they'd been learning from Frank, it would be based on precise movements and correct enunciation. She'd have no issues with either one. Sam would, because she'd have problems with the accent as she still did with English in general, and even Sonja didn't mimic as precisely as Sasha herself.

Sonja would calm down eventually. She'd take all this as a challenge, and excel as always. Sasha couldn't bring herself to be excited, but it would be important to blend in, so she, too, would do her best. Too, it was never a bad idea to learn new weapons for her arsenal. Of course… it also meant she'd have to speak. Frequently. Possibly at length. She couldn't account for how much the idea bothered her.

Frank was echoing the sentiment at that moment as well, when Sasha refocused on the conversation at hand. "You're all going to have to get used to this. It's not ideal but it's also not _official_ , and so I couldn't _officially_ refuse. SPEAR needs help at this school and I'm the one with an in. Besides," he added, "it'll get you some useful magical education that _isn't_ like anything you're used to."

That, of course, was a very good thing. Scotland at the very least would be nothing like China.

"There's probably no fighting," Sam said mournfully.

"They have dueling," responded Frank. When she brightened, he deliberately included, "With wands. That's the best you'll get. _Don't_ make trouble."

Sonja made a noise through her nose as Sam's face fell. "As if the children at that school could test you anyway. You'll just have to fight with Sasha."

Sasha saw Samantha's hopeful eyes turn on her, and shrugged and nodded in reply. Sam grinned. Sonja rolled her eyes.

Sasha put down her sewing, and left.

  


* * *

  


Training turned out to be a disaster. Frank simply couldn't do much from books he'd never studied, even with recommendations of Hogwarts first-year texts, and he called a halt to things before excessive time was wasted or more SPEAR property damaged. The Latin spells turned out to be too picky about proper pronunciation for Frank's East Coast accent when lacking an actual pronunciation guide, far more picky than even the standardized wand-based spells Frank already knew—that, and the books' descriptions of the proper wand movements were severely lacking. By the time five inexpensive, broken-in, but serviceable flying brooms had arrived via international mail (UK brooms tended to differ enough from US ones to cause issues), all magical learning had been suspended and Frank had a message out to the Ministry of Magic, via Commander Howlett, requesting someone be sent to help.

Nobody took well to the initial failures, with Sonja calling it a clear sign that this was futile and unworkable, Sam losing her temper multiple times and causing almost as much damage non-magically as with her temporary wand, and Sasha ending her lessons bewildered and frustrated at her lack of immediate mastery. Frank was issued a written reprimand for property destruction and he sent a blistering note in return, colorfully describing how this hadn't been his idea. In retaliation, SPEAR innocently insisted the Ministry could spare no one, and instead promised they would send the next best thing. He showed up a few days later.

Sean Cassidy was an outwardly dour man, with red-gold hair and blue-green eyes and a personality that also hovered equally between two complementary elements: professionalism and daydreaming. Mind-wandering, really, and a tendency to be woolly in general, when he wasn't on the job.

But this wasn't strictly speaking a job, anyway, this was a favor, or close to one. He owed his old supervisor, Bian, for last year, and this would take some pressure off her, and save her a search for someone better. All Sean had to do was spend a few weeks in Idaho with prodigies. No trouble at all.

Their facility was small and out of the way, but aboveground, and thank God for small favors; Sean hated underground bunkers even though they were everywhere within SPEAR operations, so this place (really no larger than a National Guard armory) would be a lot less of a bother to spend so long at, small as it was. Low security, lots of freedom… not, now that he thought on it, the kind of place Frank Castle would usually bunk at for long. Frank's business had been changed by adopting daughters, and a good bit. Most other agents, Sean might be wary of, seeing as abrupt alterations in an agent's humors tended to be a bad sign, but Castle never worried him. Steady as a rock, that one. Sean couldn't manage much surprise that British wandwork had tripped him up, though, Queens vowels and all.

This place, anyway—almost rustic, with the plasticky feel that made American wizard operations look eternally underfunded. Nice even so. It was like a waystation; sensible to have them out in the middle of nowhere. It was hard to Apparate back to someplace when you couldn't get a landmark fix. Lord in heaven, everything in this outpost was _tan_. Why. Tan and beige and alarming warm shades that worsened the heat. Sean nearly missed the drabness of gray, and he _certainly_ missed the cool air in Mayo. Even in New York, American summers had always given him fiery headaches. He checked in, got directions, and went for crew quarters, praying for open windows.

He'd some experience with judging a room full of people in one glance, and the room behind Castle once the door had opened was a room that dispelled his headache immediately.

"Cassidy," said Frank, holding out his hand; Sean shook it, stopping the urge to grin at him, a grin that would have been just a few parts schadenfreude and the rest impressed. He could tell these quarters had begun as typical for the place, but the requisitions that had gone into them since were a sight—low tables, sound-muffling hangings, a rack with swords on it, and entirely too much red—as much as the other four people there.

Frowning at a huge, dusty, leather-bound book from his perch on a tall stool was none other than Peter Parker, Castle's partner, a tall, rumpled young wizard without much more common sense than God gave a turnip, but with a square enough moral compass and a talent for Potions that made him stand out even in SPEAR; Sean had supposed he'd be here, so it was really the others what made him decide this would be worth the time spent.

Three girls sat in a loose triangle on the floor with each a broomstick in hand. Little things, they were, and narrow, except for one who sported boxer's muscles. That muscled one was scowling at her broom like she could set it on fire with her eyes, while the others regarded Sean himself in measuring looks, one a good bit more suspicious than the other, that other with her broom canted at an angle in her grip as if she might attack him with it. Adult expressions indeed for girls who looked hardly old enough to be out of pigtails. They all had very straight posture and the barely taller one watching Sean kept shooting irritated glances at the other two.

The three were identical about the face. He'd forgotten they'd be triplets.

Prodigies, eh? So this was what Frank Castle had gotten himself into. A right mess, and good job, too. Sean wasn't here to have fun so it wouldn't do to show too much of it, being a professional and all, but if anything slowed his return greeting to Castle, it was the half-dozen inappropriately approving remarks plugging up his throat.

Eventually, he cleared it. "Castle," he returned, keeping it simple for safety. He could tell Frank had spotted his amusement by the way the dark eyebrows knitted together in a surly fashion, and smoothed his own expression better. "Introduce me," he continued, properly serious now, head inclined towards the others.

"They know who you are; they've been briefed," was the reply, but Castle did make a gesture for him to enter. Sean stepped through the door and was glad he wasn't wearing a jacket, because there was no place to hang one. Frank gestured to each girl in turn: "Sasha. Sonja. Samantha."

"Ah," said Sean, which was unplanned. Names. All with 's.' Triplets, and now he'd never tell them apart. "Sean," he offered shortly, also with an 's.' They all looked at him now, and the third one seemed not to have registered that he wasn't her offending broomstick.

Fortunately, Parker looked up as well, thumping down the book on his stool and coming forward to extend a hand. He wore SPEAR uniform trousers, a plain white T-shirt, and a careless smile. "Hey!" he said, friendly, puppyish. "Heard a lot about you."

Sean snorted. "No, you haven't." But he felt his own smile was affable enough.

"Have, too. You're in Intelligence, and you're good."

"Don't talk like a rookie."

"How long will you be here?" Frank broke in, having closed the door and walked over, in full uniform himself. Sean suspected he was never out of it, and as the thought occurred to him, his immediate reaction was _Wizard's robes. They'll have to practice in wizard's robes, or they'll never get used to moving their arms the right way. Castle'll look right proper in those. Bet he'll hate them._

"As long as you need me," he answered; he'd get to all that after the pleasantries, "unless that's longer than six weeks."

The frowning, muscled girl (Lord, _all with 's'_ ) stood then and left the broom on the floor, her face going concerned. She approached him by a few steps. "You're not staying here," she said, almost a question. _Not_ an American accent. No wonder they'd been hopeless at Latin spells without a tutor.

Before he could respond, a much lower-pitched, ruder version of the same voice said: "Be quiet, Samantha. Clearly the _adults_ are talking. They'll pay us mind when we become important."

Frank sighed. Parker winced. Samantha glared at the sister who'd spoken and told her, "You promised!"

"I promised to observe a reasonable level of civility, not to tolerate being ignored."

Sean forced himself to blink slowly, and to recalibrate his assessment a touch. Samantha was turning back to him; she gave him a quick bow. "Sorry. Sonja isn't used to having teachers we don't know." 

There was a short silence, and more glaring, the other two girls had stood up, and it was definitely Sean's turn to say something. "Nah," he started flippantly, "I like a student who gets to the point." He wasn't sure how to respond to the bow; he was betting it wasn't the same as being bowed to by wizards or witches. "You'll not be thanked for that at Hogwarts, though. They like a little more respect. Still," he said, extending a handshake to the rude one anyway, "we aren't there yet, and I don't mind."

The girl—Sonja—looked at his hand, at Castle, and at Parker, then shook it, the briefest handshake Sean had ever had. "I am sure, then, that instructors at this school will reciprocate," she said dryly, obviously stupendously unimpressed.

Sean shook hands with the other two also. The silent one (must be the third name, Sasha) hesitated notably, and minimized contact in a subtly different way. Hmm.

"So!" Careful to include everyone in his address now, Sean gave a deliberately relaxed smile. "Where are we starting? What's been done with these, eh?" He pointed to the brooms. "And I don't suppose you'd all agree to wear name tags."

Samantha frowned again. "Where are you staying?"

"Whoops. Sorry, lass. I've got quarters here, I won't be staying in yours."

"But there's not enough room." Suspicion crept into her tone.

Castle rescued him by saying, "Shaughnessy left last week."

"Oh," she answered.

Sean began to wonder if this was what his whole stay would be like. He kind of hoped so; more interesting, anyway. But it would slow things down, so he'd want to plan for that. A bit of learning would settle these three (well, the two that needed settling) quick enough; they were that sort. He'd need to settle too, or they'd decide he wasn't to be listened to, as they were also _that_ sort. Frank had done a good job by them. He'd best leave name tags aside and catch onto their names on his own.

"Brooms?" he asked again.

Parker edged away for no apparent reason.

It turned out, brooms were the funniest place to begin.

**Author's Note:**

> Tbh if you read this at all you are my friend now.
> 
> sightless-raiton is credited with basically 98.45% of all dialogue for Sirius Black because I, evidently, have no ability to write him.


End file.
